Teifling Warm-ups With Jesta And Molleh~

I really like the idea of enchanted suits of armour powered by old magic and the souls of dead knights

“When i die, bury me with a headstone etched with cryptic text that heavily implies my grave is cursed or that i’m a vampire. just to give future generations something to have fun with, you know?”

-mollymauk

au where uncle aaron doesnt die but he has still just found out his favorite nephew is spiderman so now hes just kinda like :/ damn i guess i gotta be a superhero now

its like batman and robin if batman were the sidekick. hes just sort of following miles around dragging his scrawny little butt out of tight spots and yelling encouragement. 

C1 F2 R2 Z1

just hops this time

C1 How do they sit in a chair

– normal except completely sideways (arm rests prevent this)

F2 What is her ideal party

– She doesn’t really like parties

R2 Would they be a strict or laid back parent

– Strict but I guess it depends what about

Z1 What is their favorite animal

– real big just sloppy dogs like st bernards or newfoundland or neapolitan mastiff

sexual tension is out, platonic tension is in. I need enemies who have fought each other so many times that they've developed a mutual fondness, realized they have a lot in common, and have to stop themselves from slipping into friendly conversation when they're supposed to be kicking each other's asses.

oh to be an 1800’s gentleman practicing questionably unethical science whose experiments drive you to madness as your lover grows more concerned each passing day

An odd idea I got in my head a while ago that I thought might be fun to share:

What with the prevalence of reporters in the Stays and interest surrounding the Chain, I thought it might be interesting to consider one of these journalists approaching rank and file Chain members for interviews (sort of mockumentary style). While on the one hand I think Chain members know better than to blab, on the other hand what if this was sanctioned by the higher ups to drum up some good press and attract recruits. Maybe even conducted under the watchful eye of a Junior Officer (I’m assuming Two Shoes as the only one trusted and responsible enough for the project but who knows). 

I’m far from an expert in journalism, but here goes:

Alright, well, why don’t we start at the beginning: Where did you join the Chain of Acheron?

So, as far as I understand, Helltroopers get pretty descriptive nicknames when they join up. What’s the story behind yours? 

And what attracted you to the Chain initially? What was your first impression on joining? Has that impression changed lately?

Has anything really surprised you since joining the company? Any particular memories that stand out to you?

Why have you stayed on with the Chain? Do you see yourself sticking with the company for much longer?

And how exactly do you contribute to the Chain? Do you ever see yourself as doing more and moving up the ranks?

Do you have any beliefs or convictions apart from membership in the Chain?

I’ve heard that Helltroopers leave their old lives behind, but what was your life like before you joined the Chain?

What’s the most challenging thing about being a member of the Chain?

If you could direct the Chain’s next action, what would you have the company do?

What is your opinion on the Senior officers?

Any Helltroopers, officers or otherwise, you have a problem with?

What do you know about the Chain of Acheron’s intensions here in Capital?

I imagined this as starting out like a human interest piece that escalates into an interrogation. 

Please feel free to add in your Helltrooper responses and reactions, and even add/expand questions if ya like!

my arch nemesis cynthia is, of course, at the bank, because we both were sent like clockwork to pick up the checks of our husbands. she is wearing a lovely long green gown, which i know was on behalf of me, because, as my husband will tell you, our house abhors green and glamour. already the tellers look at each other under their little hats, for they love our tirades, i’m sure, although not more than i hate them. 

“oh, is that your knitting?” my arch nemesis cynthia peers her eyes at my hands. “is it some kind of… sock?” everyone knows she and i used to be close before we were married and our husbands, smartly so, have introduced us to the idea of true vengeance.

“it is a scarf,” i say. i want to tell her that when the time comes and the world gets cold it will go over my mouth and i will breathe warm air and it will fill my lungs and i will be able to run around with my love even in the dark night. “it is not,” i say, “over surprising that you should be caught unawares of a scarf,” i say, “as i’m sure enjoying winter festivities are too beneath the handsome qualities your husband prefers.” pompous ass.

the tellers pass each other eyes for now it has started and they are delighted.

my arch nemesis cynthia thrusts out her hand. a white bottle. “rat poison,” she says. “i would expect the whole town knows about your little problem.” stage whisper. “such a shame, my dear.” then she rustles her long green skirts - which i know she wore on behalf of me - and she shimmies herself out of the room like royalty. oh, she floats everywhere she goes, beautiful black hair behind her. the bottle in my palm is cold. i will devise how to get her back starting first thing tomorrow.

the week, as always, is a long week, for there is much to make and do and knit and be. my husband comes home and i love him for who he is; for he never comes home without checking the state of the house up and down. he is the kind who loves his home so completely and sets each room like a stage for a great band to come playing. i am too ashamed to tell him why so many of the rats go missing, only make him a stew the next morning to celebrate. his favorite, although not mine, i’m afraid. plenty left over.

my arch nemesis today - of course - in a green the color of rotting. a bruise is uncarefully covered on her cheekbone, so striking against all of her dainty. her husband would say it was for her ungraceful nature, and i know mine would agree. i strike first, already delighted by my master plan, shoving over our best picnic basket tied with a bow. “i made you and yours a stew,” i say, “for beneath all that you carry” all that horrible wealth of your husband  “it seems you’re getting rather skinny.” i can’t resist one last comment. “i am worried you’re about to waste to nothing.”

She plucks it out of my hand. “yes, if it weren’t for you and your husband’s dwindling wealth,” her sarcasm is biting, “i’m sure i will be nothing in, oh, 5 weeks time.” she arches a brow. “so long from now.”

“i am counting the days,” i tell her. her lips purse. the tellers behind me make a choked titter. perhaps, by their estimation, i have won this round quite completely. i go home to my husband smiling. he asks where i have been and i tell him i’ve been at the bank, but he checks anyway because i like to get up to tricks and he doesn’t like to fall for it. it is a good game we play. at night, when he is asleep, i am so in love that i must convince myself to pull the covers over my nose and practice breathing. how silly to wake him up for a young girl’s feelings. 

the first week of five: she gives me a solid, ugly ring that requires three knuckles to hold. “i feel so badly for your status, and i must remember to practice charity,” she says. “it such a small thing, but do be careful amongst all that thin pine furnishing of your house, which dents so easily.” my husband appears at the bank’s front door. just checking. so lovely to be picked up by him. at night, in a rage, i try it - beneath the table bends easily. i scuff out the scratch with walnut before my husband can see. i pull the covers over my face in bed and breathe.

the second week: i wear her ugly ring and give her more stew, this time hearty with meat. her dress is a meadow. my heart each time it sees her collapses on itself. she hands me clothes for my husband, since his wealth continues to go missing, and the charity of her heart is so loving. i am so ashamed i bury them far by the old tree, where all my shames go hiding. again, the covers. it, by now, helps me sleep. i have gotten so good at it that i can simply shimmy my shoulders to be perfectly toasty and buried.

the third week: she asks how comes my knitting. i tell her it’s nearly complete. she asks how comes my husband, whom she must know has been ill recently, and who is doing quite badly. i go home to him, shaking. even sick he is a good housekeeper, who comes home examining for dust and dinge so i do not fall behind on my chores. who checks to be sure i spoke to only him and no one more, for fear a man might snatch me. tell me, who else has a man so involved, in this day and age?

the fourth week she is envy green. i shove a whole heaping of stew at her, for now her husband has gotten it. i say it will return him to spirits, she laughs, a sudden, beautiful sound, even in the quiet of a bank. everyone stares. maybe it is the stress that is making her quite improper. i feel the same way. so much is happening and it always seems she knows. she says she heard he has left me nothing in the will, which everyone already knows. she says she doubts either of us can dig upwards from the hole we’re both in. i look at the bruise on her nose. i tell her to mind her own husband, and be careful where she goes.

the fifth week: so final. her, garishly lime green. and i in black, to pick up a check that hardly seems the effort. it will be enough to cover my husband’s funeral. she smiles at me and hands me a silver bottle. she says quietly: now that i am destitute, there is one thing for it all, and everyone would understand quite completely. it would be quiet, and quick, and complete.

it is the night of the new moon, so dark no man can see in it. i receive notice her husband has died, and i am sorry to say i find a terrible joy in it. the air has changed cold. i have left a note asking to be buried in my scarf, the last thing i have made on this earth. i go through each perfect room, but there is nothing else to take with me, for the house has always been his and his alone, and now aches to be gone of him. i would not serve as a good tender for it. having spent so many nights watched carefully, the silly girlish freedom i’d gain would surely set the house ablaze.

i follow her instructions. quick, quiet, complete.

the horrible rustling is what does it. like a million green skirts. and then it is dark, and i am in my own coffin, eerie with pine. my head hurts but i must be quick and quiet. they have listened and buried me with my scarf. i shimmy my shoulders just-so and get it over my face. bring my arms up, ugly ring heavy, and begin to hit as hard as i can, over and over, the thin wood of my husband’s favorite furniture, the cretin. it would be pine, of course - he left me no money to be buried in any nicer recourse.

the wood splits so horribly, and then it is very hard to breathe, harder than under the covers, and i have to remind myself to be patient and continue to dig upwards, while my throat closes and my heart beats so loudly and the whole thing is so heavy it is a universe. the shifting of gravedirt is loud, and loud, and i feel i will be turned into a worm, and i fear everyone has forgotten about me, or i have gotten the timing wrong, or i will really die down here in the dirt and the cold

but then her hand, and my hand, and we are both digging towards each other, and she lifts me so easily from the ground like a plucked turnip and holds me against her, us both panting and muddied. we can only stay like this for so long, here in my pauper grave, and then we are both running to the old tree where we met, and unburying a second thing; my lovely box of shame, and men’s clothes, and all of my husband’s dwindling fortune i have slowly been squirrelling away.

my love and angel cynthia, who has black hair like a curtain and a mind so fast i sometimes am in frank awe at it, who is, even now and dirty and raw: even now the only sun in my life.

like this, i a man in an almost-dawn, and us cleaned by the river, and her smiling so widely, and only a faint bruise on her, and our pasts behind us in ugly garish colors. and her delicate hand and beautiful nose and when i finally get to kiss her it feels like green feels; my favorite color, all warm and nature and sunny grace and grass and lying awake so filled with love it makes you shake.

i hold her, and she holds me, and our future is a love like a dream unburied.

Reasons to Write a Play

If you’re an author, you should write a play. Even if your genre is high fantasy novels, even if your genre is romance novellas, even if your genre is poetry, even if you don’t watch theatre often, you should write a play.

Why?

1. It’s a completely different medium for storytelling that still puts your writing skills to use.

2. It’s an incredibly helpful exercise in show-don’t-tell. Like seriously. Wow.

3. A new way to write characters. You can’t shoehorn in extensive physical descriptions most of the time, so you have to resort to defining them by their actions and words. Again, see point 2.

4. You’re creating a piece of performance art without even getting up off the couch? Woah??

5. It’s so gratifying to watch it performed, or even just read, if you can. Like oh wow.

6. Lots of stuff that you never think you’ll need or use again outside of playwriting follows you back into your prose work.

7. The world needs more plays that aren’t just adaptations of Disney movies or 80′s jukebox cash grabs trying to ride the coattails of Heathers. Seriously.

8. It’s fun.

9. Like, really fun.

10. For real, I have never finished a writing project more quickly or with less burnout.